Licensed Psychologist
Dr. Marshack’s blog postings are short and timely. She shares tips that make your complex relationships work better. She also posts questions because she wants to hear from you and share ideas. Bringing people together to help each other is one of her missions.
Note: Some of the older blogs posts have been imported from a previous website and may have broken links. Try the “search” function in the sidebar to find linked pages that appear to be missing.
“If you can’t see it, does it exist?”
After more than thirty years of working with autistic adults, couples, and families, I still hear the same comments:
“Aren’t we all on the spectrum?”
“Oh, you think everyone is autistic.”
“I think I’m on the spectrum too, but I don’t have any problems.”
“My husband is probably a little autistic.”
“Aren’t all men like that?”
Depending on the day, these comments leave me feeling annoyed, hurt, dismissed, invalidated, and sometimes profoundly alone.
Not because people are trying to be cruel.
Most aren’t.
They simply cannot see what I see.
When most people think of autism, they imagine a child who struggles with language, social interaction, or daily functioning. They picture obvious signs.
High-functioning autism doesn’t fit that picture.
The autistic adult may be highly educated. They may be successful in business. They may have a family, a career, and a mortgage. They may appear charming, intelligent, and articulate.
In fact, they may seem more competent than everyone else in the room.
Because the challenges are not obvious, observers assume they do not exist.
Yet the spouses, children, coworkers, and friends living closest to that person often experience a very different reality.
Most people judge relationships from the outside.
They see the autistic husband who faithfully goes to work every day.
They see the autistic wife who is devoted to her hobbies and interests.
They see a parent who never misses a soccer game.
What they don’t see is what happens behind closed doors.
They don’t see conversations that never quite connect.
They don’t see a spouse who feels emotionally invisible.
They don’t see misunderstandings that repeat for decades despite everyone’s best efforts.
They don’t see children who learn to suppress their own needs because one parent’s needs dominate the household.
The public sees behavior.
The family experiences impact.
Those are not always the same thing.
One reason autism can be difficult to recognize is that everyone shares some autistic-like traits.
Most of us have routines.
Most of us get overwhelmed.
Most of us miss social cues occasionally.
Most of us have special interests.
But having a trait is not the same as having a neurological operating system organized around those traits.
We all cough sometimes.
That doesn’t mean we all have pneumonia.
We all forget things.
That doesn’t mean we all have dementia.
Likewise, occasionally preferring solitude or liking routines does not automatically place someone on the autism spectrum.
The question is not whether a trait exists.
The question is how the traits combine into a pattern that shapes a person’s experience of the world and their relationships with others.
Another reason autism is difficult to recognize is that it often exists within a system.
Family members adapt.
Spouses compensate.
Children accommodate.
Friends make excuses.
Coworkers work around problems.
Over time, everyone adjusts.
The system becomes normal.
A fish does not notice water because it has never experienced anything else.
Many NeuroDivergent families operate the same way.
The patterns become invisible to the people living inside them.
When someone finally points out the pattern, the reaction is often disbelief.
“That’s just how he is.”
“That’s just how our family works.”
“Everybody does that.”
No. Everybody doesn’t.
But if it is all you’ve ever known, it can certainly feel that way.
When high-functioning autism remains invisible, the greatest cost is often borne by the people who are struggling to make sense of their experiences.
I have worked with countless spouses who spent years believing they were too sensitive.
Too demanding.
Too emotional.
Too needy.
Too critical.
Then they discovered there was another explanation.
Not an excuse.
An explanation.
Suddenly decades of confusion began to make sense.
Yet when they share this realization with friends or relatives, they are often met with skepticism.
“He seems fine to me.”
“She doesn’t look autistic.”
“Maybe you’re overthinking it.”
Those responses can be deeply painful.
Not because they disagree.
But because they erase lived experience.
Recognizing high-functioning autism is not about putting labels on people.
It is about understanding patterns.
It is about understanding why two people can love each other deeply and still repeatedly miss each other’s emotional signals.
It is about understanding why good intentions do not always produce good outcomes.
It is about understanding why some families feel as though they are speaking different languages despite sharing the same home.
Most importantly, it is about replacing blame with understanding.
When we can see the pattern, we can respond to it more effectively.
When we cannot see it, we often end up blaming ourselves—or each other.
Once people begin understanding these patterns, something interesting happens. They start seeing what was previously invisible.
One of the most fascinating things I have observed over the years is what happens after people begin to understand neurodiversity.
At first, they struggle to see it.
Then suddenly they see it everywhere.
A client once laughed and told me, “I never realized one of my coworkers was autistic. Then one day I saw it. Plain as day. Now I can’t unsee it.”
Another was a nine-year-old boy who had recently learned about his own diagnosis. He arrived at our next session bursting with excitement.
“There is another kid in my class who’s autistic too!”
He wasn’t making fun of the other child. He wasn’t labeling him. He was delighted.
For the first time, he realized he wasn’t the only one.
That is something many people misunderstand about autism. Recognition is not always about identifying a problem. Often it is about discovering that there are others who experience the world as you do.
I was reminded of this recently when a reader named Eric wrote to me after reading one of my blogs. He quoted a passage back to me:
“We move in patterns. We see connections. We anticipate outcomes. We notice what is missing. And once you see this way… you cannot unsee it.”
What struck me was not the quote itself. It was the relief behind it.
Eric had recognized himself in those words.
Not because he was searching for a label.
Because he had finally found language for experiences that had always been there.
He wasn’t telling me I had taught him something new. He was telling me I had given him language for something he had experienced his entire life.
I have seen this same relief many times.
One autistic client became devoted to therapy after our very first session. He told me I was the only therapist who had ever truly “seen” him.
Not fixed him.
Not judged him.
Not explained him away.
Seen him.
For many autistic individuals, that moment can be life-changing.
After years of being misunderstood, criticized, or told they are doing relationships incorrectly, they finally encounter someone who understands the logic behind their experience.
The label becomes less important.
The recognition becomes everything.
And once people begin recognizing these patterns, they often start seeing them elsewhere.
A coworker suddenly makes sense.
A neighbor suddenly makes sense.
A childhood memory suddenly makes sense.
Like a hidden image emerging from a puzzle, what was once invisible becomes impossible to ignore.
When someone says, “Aren’t we all on the spectrum?” I understand what they are trying to do.
They are trying to be inclusive.
They are trying to build a bridge.
But for many people living in NeuroDivergent relationships, those words can feel dismissive because they erase experiences that have taken years to understand.
The challenge is not that autism is everywhere.
The challenge is that high-functioning autism can be extraordinarily difficult to see unless you know what you’re looking for.
And once you learn to see it, something remarkable happens.
Spouses stop blaming themselves.
Parents stop feeling confused.
Autistic individuals stop feeling alone.
What was once invisible becomes visible.
What once felt like a personal failure begins to make sense as a difference in how people experience the world.
Sometimes the most important thing we can offer another human being is not an explanation.
It is recognition.
“I see you.”
For many people, those words can change everything.
On Easter weekend, in the quiet coastal community of the Hills of Neskowin, a car crash nearly claimed the life of Danny—a beloved 38-year-old man with Down Syndrome. What followed wasn’t just a miraculous escape. It was a revelation of how deeply connected we all are, and how healing arrives—often quietly, unexpectedly, and just in time.
One of the trees outside my house caught the car, absorbing the worst of the impact. It was left gashed—leaving a huge wound with no bark to protect it. And while Danny walked away with no visible injuries, the tree’s wound was visible, fresh, and weeping as it tried to recover.
Just like Danny, the tree survived. Danny cried when he emerged from the car, and he cried again when he told his story for the podcast. He is a vulnerable adult who needs to be heard. His video was poignant, and his trust in God was amazing. In the podcast, he thanked God for protecting him and blessing him, and he often listens to his ‘Calm’ app while working on his ball stats—a peaceful rhythm in his daily life. And just like him, the tree will need time, care, and patience to heal.
In the wake of the crash, no one from the HOA came by. No board member. No phone call to ask how I was doing, even though I was the one who called Jeanene mid-air as she flew to South Africa. Even though I helped arrange for Danny’s care, comforted Melissa, and tended to the tree.
But the next day, I saw something interesting. Lowell Brown, who I had assumed reported me to the HOA, was repairing the gravel near MaryLee’s ditch. Quietly. Methodically. On his own. I thought perhaps she had asked him to—but I later learned she doesn’t even remember who he is.
MaryLee’s story is another kind of healing. While I won’t share her full medical story out of respect for her privacy, she experienced a serious health scare in the past year that affected her memory and led to changes in her life. Since then, she’s shown remarkable signs of recovery, with moments of clarity and joy that reflect how healing can happen in unexpected ways. I shared information about Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome with her—not because her case is identical to Melissa’s, but because the threads of healing, medication, and memory are woven through so many of our stories.
Still, a year later some things are lost to her.
MaryLee once brought me flowers on my first day in the neighborhood. I remember her saying, “I think you and I will have fun getting into trouble together.”
Our trouble was good trouble: beach walks, shared laughter, and dinners at Hawk Creek. That memory still holds warmth.
We live in a neighborhood that forgets sometimes. Forgets who it is. Forgets that healing doesn’t just happen in private. It happens in presence.
And yet, there are signs of remembering. Like Lowell with his rocks—oddly shaped stone barriers placed in ditches throughout the neighborhood, his quiet and often puzzling attempt to manage erosion in his own way.
Like MaryLee’s unexpected recovery—and her comment to me after reading the account of the car crash: ‘What a whirlwind! Your head must be spinning!!! Thank God you were there for Danny. I hate to think what would have happened to him for the night. Feel bad for Melissa too. . . Who’s Lowell Brown?!?!’
Melissa, Danny’s caregiver, has a story too. She lost control of the vehicle and has no memory of the crash. Out of respect for her privacy and the ongoing legal process, I won’t go into full detail here. What I can share is that she’s facing a deeply human moment—one that includes recovery, medical complications, and emotional overwhelm. These are not excuses, but they are important context. Addiction recovery is rarely a straight line, and Melissa is doing her best to face the consequences while seeking the care she needs. That deserves to be held with both honesty and compassion.
She had a UTI, only discovered by the ER staff after the crash. Combined with prescribed blood pressure medication and possible hypoglycemia, her disorientation that day may have had medical underpinnings. These are the kinds of scenarios that make Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome (PAWS) very real—something I understand well as a psychologist.
As a precaution, the police issued a no-contact order between Melissa and Danny. But Danny, always compassionate, continued to text her out of concern. Melissa blocked him to respect the order, but she reached out to me to say she is seeking help and wishes peace and healing for them both.
She will not return to our lives, but I hold space for her to heal, too. Jeanene, Danny’s mother, also expressed to me that she does not wish for Melissa to be arrested. Her compassion, even in this difficult moment, reminds us of the deeper humanity at play. It’s complicated, like many human stories are. And it is also part of the healing path—learning when to step back with love.
After the crash, I walked Danny through the scene slowly. Later, he took his sister on the same tour when she arrived. This kind of debriefing is essential—we know it helps. That’s why airlines have critical incident teams, and why the Red Cross sends psychologists to disaster sites. Because telling the story helps us reclaim it.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been the one to step in when things unravel. It seems to be my role—like a neurotransmitter between broken places. When Cindy was recovering from major surgery, her husband Mike was driving her home from a post-op visit on an icy day when their car slid into the ditch outside my house—yes, that same ditch. I happened to be working at my dining table, which gives me a view of both the ocean and the road. I saw their car go off, and within minutes I had my cleats and blankets. I keep spare cleats for emergencies, and wouldn’t you know it—one pair fit Mike’s very large feet perfectly. I wrapped Cindy in a blanket and carefully walked her home while Mike waited for the tow truck. Sometimes it’s not dramatic, just quietly vital.
Today is Easter. The day we remember that life does not end in the grave. That wounds do not have the last word.
We are not just bodies. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. And sometimes, trauma pulls us so far from our center, we forget that.
But grace remembers.
The wounded tree outside my house is weeping sap. Danny is slowly laughing again. MaryLee is remembering the names of her friends. Melissa is trying to find her next step. And I am still here—waiting for the first neighbor to ask how I’m doing.
This is the human part of me—the part that needs affirmation—even though the Soul part of me knows that God is always there for me 24/7.
To be fair, Jeanene has thanked me profusely. Moms need to be heard too. Jeanene was in South Africa as a gift to her grandson, while at the same time tending to her son Danny from thousands of miles away. Hers is a quiet, maternal love—the kind that spans continents and crises. It reminds me of another mother on Easter—Mary, who stood by her son through the most excruciating pain a mother could endure. That kind of love is enduring. It stays, even in silence.
Jeanene and I texted back and forth a lot while she was on the plane and after she landed in Cape Town. I sent her photos and updates, and she coordinated with her children to care for Danny the next day. She said, ‘Not sure how to repay you, but thank you so much—and I hope you still get to go to yard sales.’ She knew I had planned to go with Jon and Phyllis to the Coastal Garage Sale gala, but of course, that got scrapped. But Jeanene remembered.
And Dr. Theresa has responded to my texts with facts and insights on the issues—her way of showing support, which is so perfectly her, a retired medical researcher with a steady presence. She also sends us daily photos—of sunrises, elk, and other glimpses of our Pacific paradise.
These two women have been steadfast friends in the neighborhood. They are beacons of hope to others—when they are ready to see.
This isn’t just a Hills of Neskowin story. It’s a human one.
So today, I invite you—wherever you are—to do what Easter calls us to do:
Remember. Forgive. Heal. Love.
And when you see someone tending to a wounded tree, or a forgotten ditch, or an injured soul—step forward. Say something. Lend a hand.
Because we can all be part of the healing. We just have to remember who we really are.
God works in mysterious ways—and on Easter weekend, no less. The connections among us all are suddenly visible, just beneath the surface, waiting to be seen. Melissa and MaryLee, their parallel paths of recovery. All of the moms—Cindy, Jeanene, MaryLee, and me—each holding a thread of maternal love. The doctors’ steady hands—Dr. Theresa and Dr.Kathy. Danny, right at the center. And me again, in my strange, sacred role as the neurotransmitter. Even Lowell and Theresa Springer and me, circling around the infrastructure problem—almost together, but not quite.
And yet, maybe that’s enough for grace to find a way in.
Because this is Holy Week. And Holy Weeks don’t happen in cathedrals alone. They happen in ditches, in driveways, in kitchen text messages and between neighbors who haven’t yet spoken. They happen in cleats trudging across ice, and in the steady weeping of a tree, and in the whispered prayers of a man who listens to his Calm app while working on his baseball stats.
Grace finds a way—in the messy, miraculous middle of it all.
Last night I had a dream.
Someone had invented Scratch & Sniff Dating Cards.
At first, it seemed like a brilliant idea.
On one side of the card were three pleasant scents designed to tell you everything you needed to know about a person. Coffee. Vanilla. Ocean breeze. You scratch the card, take a sniff, smile, and think:
“I like this person.”
But then I noticed something.
The card had another side.
And that side changed everything.
Most relationships begin with Side One.
This is the side that attracts us.
A beautiful smile.
A quick wit.
Intelligence.
Shared interests.
Kindness.
Adventure.
Chemistry.
Maybe something that simply feels familiar.
We all have a Side One. It’s the side we introduce to the world.
But eventually life asks us to turn the card over.
On the other side are things that weren’t obvious at first.
A troubled childhood.
Fear of rejection.
A need for solitude.
Impulsiveness.
Forgetfulness.
Loyalty.
Honesty.
Different ways of expressing love.
Different ways of processing emotion.
Different ways of experiencing the world.
In other words, we discover a human being.
Many people describe this moment as a bait and switch.
“I didn’t know this when we married.”
“This isn’t who I thought you were.”
But often no one was being deceptive.
The card simply had another side.
And perhaps neither person knew everything that was written there.
Recently I received a beautiful email from a woman named Beata. She explained that she has ADHD and is married to an autistic husband.
As she learned more about NeuroDivergence, she began to recognize patterns in her family. She realized that her mother was likely autistic and her father likely had ADHD.
Then she wrote something remarkable:
“My husband was a combination of them two that felt familiar.”
What a powerful insight.
Sometimes we are drawn to people because they feel familiar long before we understand why.
Not because they are perfect.
Not because they are flawed.
Because something about them resonates with our history.
Then, years later, we turn over the card and begin to understand what we were sensing all along.
Just this week I had a medical appointment.
My physician and I were discussing our plans to continue seeing clients on a part-time basis as we get older. She asked me more about my work.
As I described NeuroDivergent relationships, she suddenly stopped and said:
“You are talking about my life.”
She then shared that her husband is “a little bit autistic.”
Once again, another person turning over the card.
Another moment of recognition.
I’ve noticed this happens frequently.
People hear these stories and suddenly realize they are not hearing about someone else.
They are hearing about themselves.
The more I thought about my dream, the more I realized the card wasn’t really about dating.
It’s about life.
Parents discover new sides of their children.
Children discover new sides of their parents.
Friends discover new sides of one another.
Spouses discover new sides of each other.
And sometimes, decades later, we discover new sides of ourselves.
The card keeps unfolding.
What we thought we knew at twenty-five may look very different at forty-five.
What we thought we understood at forty-five may deepen at sixty-five.
Human beings are wonderfully complex.
There is always another side.
When we finally turn over the card, perhaps twenty years later, we have a choice.
We can judge what we find.
Or we can become curious.
Curiosity asks different questions.
What shaped this person?
What fears are hidden beneath the behavior?
What strengths are hidden alongside the struggles?
What gifts have I overlooked?
What have I not yet understood?
Curiosity doesn’t excuse harmful behavior.
But it often opens the door to understanding.
And understanding opens the door to compassion.
Perhaps the most important words we can say to another person are:
“Tell me more.”
Because the first side of the card may explain attraction.
But understanding begins when we turn the card over.
And if we’re fortunate, we discover that there are far more than two sides after all.
In NeuroDivergent relationships, damage often accumulates quietly.
NeuroTypical partners carry the emotional labor—explaining, repairing, translating, and holding continuity.
When empathy is not reciprocal, systems tilt.
Over time, self-protection can harden into narcissistic defenses.
This is not about villains. It is about systems under strain.
Narcissistic fallout refers to what remains when insight does not lead to change, facts do not lead to accountability, and systems do not make you whole.
Self-blame is common.
People assume they failed to explain, failed to set boundaries, failed to choose correctly. This assumes the system was capable of repair. Often, it was not.
Narcissistic systems do not correct themselves through evidence or fairness. They preserve equilibrium by deflecting responsibility.
Witnessing offers an alternative.
Witnessing is accurate seeing without self-betrayal.
It is trusting what you know.
You know what you know. And you know that you know it.
Not everything broken can be fixed.
But it can be seen.
And sometimes, that is enough to move forward intact.
For years I have listened to people say:
“I can’t go on like this.”
“I can’t take it anymore.”
“I’ve lost myself.”
Most expect me to respond with advice, reassurance, or a plan. Instead, I often ask a simple question:
Then what?
At first the question surprises people.
They are focused on ending the pain. They want the tidal wave to stop. They want relief.
Understandably so.
When life has become overwhelming, survival becomes the only goal.
But after many years of working with individuals, couples, and families navigating NeuroDivergence, I’ve learned that surviving the tidal wave is only the first chapter of the story.
The strange thing is that transformation rarely begins because life is terrible.
Sometimes it begins when life is perfectly acceptable.
You go to work.
You pay the bills.
You meet friends for coffee.
You spend time with family.
Life moves forward.
Yet somewhere beneath the surface, a quiet question begins to stir.
You cannot quite name it.
You are not unhappy.
You are not necessarily looking for change.
But something inside you knows that the life you are living is not the whole story.
Years ago, people connected with this feeling through the movie The Matrix. Neo sensed there was something he could not see. Nothing appeared obviously wrong, yet he knew there was more.
Many of us have had that feeling.
A whisper.
A longing.
A question.
Something trying to emerge.
Eventually many people arrive at a breaking point.
Perhaps it is a relationship.
A diagnosis.
An illness.
A betrayal.
Burnout.
Exhaustion.
A realization that the old way of living can no longer continue.
That is often when people find my work.
They tell me:
“I can’t go on like this.”
And I encourage them to take back their lives.
To set boundaries.
To trust themselves.
To stop abandoning their own needs.
To reclaim their voice.
For many, this is a revolutionary step.
It is necessary.
It is courageous.
It is life-saving.
But over time I have come to realize something important.
Most people think taking back their life is the destination.
I no longer believe it is.
Years ago I had a recurring dream.
I was swimming in the ocean along the Oregon Coast on a beautiful sunny day.
Others were swimming too.
Without warning, a massive tidal wave appeared.
Everyone began swimming frantically toward shore.
We fought.
Struggled.
Tried to survive.
Yet every time we were swept away by the wave.
The dream repeated itself again and again.
After each disaster, we found ourselves sitting around a classroom table while an instructor asked:
“What did you learn?”
We never knew.
The dream would begin again.
And again.
And again.
Until finally something changed.
Many of my clients eventually survive their own tidal wave.
They leave the destructive relationship.
They understand the diagnosis.
They stop blaming themselves.
They find community.
They discover language for what happened.
They find witnesses.
People who say:
“Yes, I see it too.”
That stage is deeply important.
None of us are meant to heal entirely alone.
But even after surviving, many people find themselves awake in the middle of the night asking a new question:
Now what?
The crisis is over.
The tidal wave has passed.
Yet something still feels unfinished.
In the final version of my dream, I stopped trying to outrun the wave.
Instead, I rose into the air.
I flew above the water.
As I looked down, I tried to get the attention of the other swimmers.
I wanted them to fly too.
But they did not listen.
I landed near a trail leading to the classroom where the instructor usually waited.
This time the classroom was empty.
The teacher was gone.
The students were gone.
There was only another door.
Light streamed through the opening.
Beyond it lay a forest path.
And for the first time, I understood.
The tidal wave was never the destination.
The classroom was never the destination.
Even survival was not the destination.
They were all invitations.
There is an ancient difference between surviving and transforming.
Survival says:
“I made it.”
Transformation asks:
“Who am I now?”
Survival says:
“The danger is over.”
Transformation asks:
“What is my life asking of me next?”
Many people spend years fighting the tidal wave.
Others spend years talking about the tidal wave.
Still others spend years trying to understand the tidal wave.
Eventually another possibility appears.
A second door.
A path you have never walked before.
A future you cannot yet imagine.
A life that is not merely free from pain, but full of curiosity.
For years I have encouraged people to take back their lives.
I still believe it is one of the most important things we can do.
But today I find myself asking a different question.
What happens after you take your life back?
What happens after the tidal wave?
What happens after understanding?
What happens after survival?
Perhaps that question is the second door.
And perhaps the purpose of the tidal wave was never simply to help us survive.
Perhaps it was inviting us to discover who we might become.
So if you find yourself saying:
“I can’t go on like this.”
I will still listen.
I will still care.
And eventually I will ask the same question I have always asked:
Then what?
People often ask me a version of the same question.
“How do you listen to people’s pain all day?”
“Why don’t you retire?”
“Doesn’t this work wear you down?”
They usually expect a polite, reassuring answer. What they don’t expect is the truth.
Other people’s problems are not my problems.
That statement isn’t cold. It isn’t dismissive. It’s one of the most essential principles of ethical, effective healing—especially in NeuroDivergent relationships.
I don’t carry my clients’ pain.
I witness it.
I work with it.
And sometimes—when the conditions are right—we transform it together.
That distinction is where resilience lives.
It’s a Regenerative Process
Resilience is often misunderstood as toughness. Grit. The ability to “bounce back.”
But after more than four decades of clinical work, I know this:
Resilience isn’t something you have.
It’s something you generate.
Resilience grows through:
It regenerates through use.
And here’s the part people rarely talk about:
Resilience regenerates in the witness, too.
When I sit with clients who have been misunderstood, blamed, or emotionally erased—especially NeuroDiverse adults navigating NeuroTypical systems—I’m not just helping them remember who they are.
I’m remembering myself.
Over the years, many clients have quietly re-taught me what healing can look like.
One NeuroDiverse man came to therapy like a ghost. Flattened. Hollowed out by years of relational failure and misunderstanding. He didn’t know who he was anymore—only that life had drained him.
We began where all real healing begins: resilience.
Using the first step of my 7-Step Interface Protocol, he slowly reclaimed himself. Not by fixing anyone else. Not by forcing insight. But by reconnecting to his own internal stability.
Today, he laughs.
He tells stories.
He has compassion for his NeuroTypical ex-wife without needing her to finally “get it.”
He’s alive again.
Another client first came to me as a teenager, struggling to survive a loving but deeply dysfunctional family system. He did what many resilient young people do: he left, built a life, married, and kept going.
Years later, as an adult, he called me.
“It’s time I grow some more,” he said.
He wanted someone who knew him then—and could see him now.
Sitting with him today, I feel joy. And yes, I feel grief too. Grief for what couldn’t happen in my own family. Grief for relationships that could not be repaired.
Both can be true.
Here is the truth I don’t bypass:
I couldn’t reach my autistic mother.
I couldn’t reach my autistic spouse.
I couldn’t reach my autistic daughter.
They have all cut me off.
That loss is real.
And—without those failures—I would not be as effective with the NeuroDiverse and NeuroTypical adults who sit across from me now.
They trust me not because I have answers.
They trust me because I have lived the questions.
Because I know what it is to love inside family systems where every plea for connection is punished. Where empathy is interpreted as threat. Where truth costs relationship.
Resilience doesn’t erase grief.
It makes room for it—without letting grief define the future.
So why haven’t I retired?
Because resilience regenerates.
Because my clients’ courage restores my own.
Because light doesn’t diminish when it’s shared—it multiplies.
This is the heart of Radiant Empathy.
Radiant Empathy is the capacity to remain open, loving, and present without absorbing another person’s pain as your own. It’s the difference between compassion and self-erasure. Between witnessing and drowning.
It’s what allows us to see every moment of our lives—not as proof of failure—but as a teacher.
Even the painful ones.
Especially the painful ones.
Your light has not gone out.
And if you are reading this, it is still doing its work.
If this reflection resonated with you, I invite you to join me in the Podcast After Party, where we go deeper—together—into the lived realities of NeuroDivergent relationships, resilience, and Radiant Empathy.
You’ll find additional discussions, resources, and learning opportunities at:
drkathylearningcenter.thinkific.com
Come curious.
Come honest.
Come exactly as you are.
Resilience is a regenerative process.
And your light is still burning.
— Dr. Kathy Marshack
In this 15-year Anniversary Edition, Dr. Marshack shares insights into the intricacies of a NeuroDiverse relationship through vivid storytelling. She offers tools and strategies on how to cope and reclaim your sanity as a NeuroTypical (NT) and survive in a NeuroDiverse relationship.
![Going Over The Edge](https://kmarshack.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/Going-Over-The-Edge-450-min.jpg")